Realms of Might
by Miss Lalla
Summary: AU Book 5: After running away from the Dursleys, Harry hides in Knockturn Alley where he discovers the whole new realm of magic and power. He enthusiastically immerses himself in his new experience, but what will he do when the time to get back to school arrives? Dark/Independent!Harry
1. Chapter 1

Hello everyone! After a long break, I am back with another story. I don't know how often it will be updated as I'm rather short on free time, but I will try to update as often as I can. As you can see, I can't live without writing, but I don't think I'm going to get back to Stand Before Your God and its sequel. I have lost interest in those stories. You may see some similarities in this story. Magic of Music will most certainly feature;)

_**Warnings:**_ As with all my stories, no Harry with godly powers here. He's a teenager, mind, so don't blame me for his shortcomings. We all have them and Harry here is not an exception. Some dodgy politics and ethics will feature too.

I don't own Harry Potter or his universe, though as you'll see, I've added significantly to it.

Hope you enjoy it!

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**Chapter 1 - Finally Free**

_20 August 1995_

Albus Dumbledore scratched his beard-covered chin, looking thoughtfully through the window of his office beyond which the expanse of Hogwarts School playing fields dazzled the onlooker with its verdant beauty. The expression on the old man's face was one of great worry and sorrow, all the more pronounced by the deep lines and sickly complexion.

'Where are you, my child, where are you?' he murmured softly with a gentle shake of his long beard. He patted his lower lip with one of his pointy fingers and sighed with frustration. 'Where on earth did I go wrong?' he asked himself in a whisper before returning to his seat behind the desk. He tiredly took his spectacles off his nose and took a sip of his long-cold, oversweet tea on top of which a thin film had already formed from lack of drinking.

Dumbledore gazed down at the sheet of parchment which he had received three weeks ago and which had not left his desk ever since. It was a letter from Remus Lupin whom Albus had sent to inspect the situation at number four, Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey, because Harry Potter had failed to write to his friends for almost two weeks before being discovered missing.

_Professor Dumbledore, _the letter said in a thin, crammed handwriting. _I have discovered that Harry has left the residence of his relatives two days after returning for the summer holidays. His current whereabouts are, as of yet, unknown. I shall endeavour to track the boy down and bring him to the Burrow, but I can already foresee some difficulties. Harry's aunt confessed that the boy had bribed them not to report his disappearance, which means that he left purposefully, aware that no one would accept his leaving. I have a very bad feeling about the whole situation. I would appreciate some advice on how to proceed. Until then, I will search for Harry as I see appropriate. Regards, R. Lupin._

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_6 July 1995_

Diagon Alley was as bright and beautiful as Harry had remembered from his last visit. The tiny Tudor-style houses and shops full of knick-knacks were as charming as ever, and the witches and wizards roaming the labyrinth of narrow, winding streets were as colourful and eccentric as one could only wish them to be. Harry relished in that eclectic mixture of cultures, races, languages, clothes, and magic, breathing deeply and smiling, feeling truly free for the first time in his almost fifteen years of life.

'Watch where you're going, boy!' shouted an elderly wizard with an unpleasant countenance when Harry bumped into him as he walked carelessly towards Gringott's Bank.

'Sorry, sir,' replied the boy absent-mindedly, still looking around wistfully, more interested in what the alley had to offer than in frustrated grumbles of an old fart.

'Hello, may I withdraw some money?' asked Harry, facing an imposing goblin who was scribbling away with a feather quill in a thick book.

'Master Potter,' said the creature, looking piercingly at the boy. 'Have you got your key?'

'Yes, sir,' replied Harry promptly, producing a small golden key out of his pocket and placing it on the counter in full view of the goblin. 'Here it is.'

The goblin snatched the key in its gnarled hand and inspected it closely. 'It seems to be in order.' That said, the creature beckoned for a junior assistant to attend to Harry further.

'Roddik, sir,' the young goblin introduced himself before leading the boy underground where the carts departed for the vaults in the caves.

The ride was as breathtaking as Harry had remembered. The cart sped with a staggering speed down the tracks that were magically hung in the air, making whistling and grinding noises in its wake. Harry imagined that it must have been like on a Muggle roller coaster. He was embarrassed to admit that at one point, during a particularly vicious downturn, he screamed so hard his throat burnt. The boy breathed a deep sigh of relief when the cart finally stopped and he was let to his vault. There was still the ride back to endure.

Half an hour later, Harry was sitting in Florian Fortescue's renowned ice-cream parlour, enjoying a large scoop of coconut and white chocolate ice-cream, trying to appease his upset stomach which had not taken the Gringott's ride particularly well. The quiet moment allowed him to reflect on his rather poor housing situation, as he had suddenly realised that he had nowhere to go. He couldn't very well rent a room in the Leaky Cauldron for two months. First of all, it would cost an arm and a leg, and the boy didn't fancy spending that much money, and second of all, he would surely be found by Dumbledore's people if he stayed in such an obvious place. Speaking of which, he had better abandon Diagon Alley altogether, but since the last thing he wanted was to live in the Muggle London, the only other place that seemed more or less a good hiding spot was Knockturn Alley. The boy had so far only ever been there once and it gave the impression of a rather grim and impoverished place, but it was also strange and mysterious, and Harry loved to explore. Morover, the fact that it was forbidden made it somewhat enticing for the boy. Since he had run away from home, he might as well do the whole thing properly. He wasn't sure why he was feeling such a pull towards what he knew was wrong and evil, but he wanted really badly to see all of it. There was excitement building up in the pit of his stomach at the mere thought of doing something Hermione would frown upon. He desperately wanted to try something new, something exciting and cool. Hiding in Knockturn Alley felt precisely like that - dangerous, prohibited, and new.

'Mr Fortescue?' Harry began, as he was paying for his order at the bar. 'Where do I have to go if I would like to rent a room for the holidays? Just a normal room though, not in a hotel.'

Florian frowned thoughtfully before replying, 'I would suggest visiting one of the agencies,' he said, scratching his chin. 'Or you may always just walk down the street and see if there are any ads in the windows. Sometimes people advertise, especially in Knockturn or in Eerie Lane.'

'Eerie Lane?' repeated Harry, dumbfounded. He had never heard of any other streets beside Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley around here.

'Yeah,' Mr Fortescue said uncomfortably. 'I wouldn't go there myself, of course, it's a rather nasty area, just off Knockturn, but it's cheap, so if you're on a tight budget, lad, you may want to consider it. Just be careful. The place reeks of darkness.'

Harry thanked Mr Fortescue and left the cafe, headed for a small second-hand robes shop to buy a cape to cover his Muggle clothes. He was hoping to refurbish his entire wardrobe at a later date as well, but for now a wizarding cloak to cover the atrocities would have to do. He would have went to Madam Malkin's if he weren't certain that the woman would immediately gossip about his being in Diagon Alley and the word would reach Professor Dumbledore faster than he would wish.

'How may I help you, young man?' croaked an old and wrinkled assistant, revealing his unpleasant countenance from behind a velvet veil that obscured the entrance to the back room.

'Hello, sir, I'm looking for a long, dark cloak,' the boy explained somewhat shyly. He wasn't particularly used to doing any shopping for himself and the whole situation was rather new to him. In all his past shopping excursions someone was helping him or at least providing moral support.

The elderly clerk hummed for a moment before snapping his fingers in revelation and with his gnarly hand grabbing a startled Harry by an arm, and leading the boy towards a long, wobbly rack of tattered clothes.

'This one ought to be about your size, my lad,' he said with certainty of someone who had long been in the business. At the same time he pulled out a rather nasty cape that most probably used to be black somewhere ages and ages ago but now seemed more of a washed out dark grey. It was patched and stitched in multiple places and had a doubtfully pleasant, musty smell.

'Well, I suppose it will have to do for now,' said Harry, hardly pleased with the disgusting garment. He tossed the cloak over his shoulders, wincing when the scratchy fabric touched his neck. 'How much is it?'

'Two Sickles and two Knuts,' said the shopkeeper, eyeing Harry shrewdly with his sharp, bird-like eyes. It made the boy feel uneasy, prompting him quickly to pay for his cape and leave. Embarrassed to be giving off such noxious fumes, Harry pulled the hood on to cover his face and, amid suspicious glances of the shoppers in Diagon Alley, briskly made his way towards Knockturn.

The boy hesitated before entering the murky alley. It wasn't right. He wasn't supposed to go in there. What if someone found out? What if he was arrested for being a dark wizard? What if he was attacked or killed? But then the thought of all the possibilities entered his mind. He was almost fifteen. He wanted freedom. He wanted to know what it all looked like, what the other side of the wizarding world was like. He was... _curious_.

Knockturn turned out to be slightly different from what he could recall of it when he had visited three years ago. Back then, when he had Flooed in by accident, he was terrified - he only wished to get out and get back to the brightness of Diagon Alley as fast as possible. Now, however, all he could feel was excitement. He wanted to see the place, to understand the people, to taste all the deep flavours, to hear all the shrill sounds, and to feel the magic with every nerve of his body. That didn't mean that the dirty and run-down buildings or the scary hags seemed any more pleasant. It did mean, though, that for some unfathomable reason Harry looked at them with fascination, not disgust. He remembered still as not so long ago he was also the black sheep of the otherwise pristine suburban neighbourhood and he vividly remembered how dejected he had felt when an old lady laid an unkind eye on him each time he dared to stroll down to the park. With that in mind, he pitied the people of Knockturn more than he hated them. On the other hand, he was afraid they would be much less willing to show the same sort of understanding. He worried they would seriously hurt him if he ever were to disclose his true identity or his allegiance.

Hoping to conceal himself more thoroughly from ill-meaning dark wizards he was sure to encounter in Knockturn, Harry pulled his hood more tightly over his head and slowly walked down the road, peering into shop windows in search of advertised accommodation. He was surprised to realise that shops in Knockturn had no window exhibitions and their names did not betray the trade. If someone weren't in the know, they wouldn't be able to shop in Knockturn, which was somewhat worrying since Harry expected to be able to live there. Unless, of course, someone fancied going from shop to shop, searching for what they needed.

As he walked down the narrow and crammed passage, the boy observed with interest small stalls that sold various knick-knacks of unconvincing quality and legitimacy. He particularly liked a pendant with a rune chiselled in dark wood.

'It's the old symbol of the Sun, the ancient god,' said the seller cryptically, noticing Harry's interest. 'Brings good fortune,' he elaborated shortly, trying to encourage Harry to purchase the trinket.

The boy held the pendant, inspecting it closely. It looked really nice. Obviously, it was a piece of junk, but it was nice junk none the less.

'I'll take it,' decided Harry, tying the thin leather strap around his neck.

'It's two Sickles,' demanded the old, toothless cripple, as if afraid Harry might make off without paying.

The boy continued his walk down Knockturn Alley, buying on his way a couple more treats - sweet newts' eyes pickle (apparently a delicacy), a slice of shrivelfig cake, and a small bag of firewhisky-filled chocolates.

'Mmm, yummy...' he muttered, savouring the deep, slightly bitter and burning taste of the sweets, as he looked around for any rooms to let.

'Bingo!' he whispered when at last he saw a piece of parchment stuck on the wall.

_Rooms to let. Inquire within. No non-humans and mudbloods allowed._

Harry raised an eyebrow at the rather rude ad. He reckoned he couldn't expect any better from Knockturn. After all, dark wizards were all racist and nasty. Shaking his head disapprovingly, he entered the shop which turned out to ba a small and musty bookshop with a tall shelf full of sweets in the corner.

'Hello?' he called out hesitantly. Immediately a young hag with a mop of tangled hair and a tattered dress showed up behind a dusty counter. She looked quite peculiar in this place which Harry came to associate with old, dirty witches. She was young and rather pretty, though the red lipstick and tight corset made her look a bit like a tart.

'How can I help you?' she asked in a husky voice, the tone of which clearly indicated that she'd rather not be helping him at all.

'I'm sorry,' started Harry apologetically. 'I was just walking past and I noticed the ad in your window. I'm looking for a place to stay until the end of the holidays.'

The girl smirked knowingly. 'Run away from home, haven't you?'

Harry blushed underneath his hood. Was he really that obvious? 'Well, not exactly,' he mumbled, blushing even more. He could be such a fool sometimes. He needed more mettle.

'We don't ask questions here,' she assured him quickly. 'At least not ones that require answers. If you want a room, go to Robin's down the road. If you're low on cash, he'll probably let you work for him in exchange for a room, though don't expect any luxury.'

'Thanks a lot,' said Harry and quickly left the bookshop - Mercy's, as the shield above the door proclaimed.

The trip to Robin's was short, just two shops away. Robin's was a dull and dark place, full of animal smells and cries. It was a petshop, one full of, among others, birds, bats, cats, toads, rats, mice, and _snakes_. Harry grinned broadly when he heard them conversing with each other.

'May I help you?' asked a deep male voice from within the shop. There was an eerie edge to it, making the boy's hair stand up with unease.

'I... I heard that you have rooms to let, sir,' said Harry quickly, wanting to get it over with.

'So I do,' conceded the strange man whose face was still protected by the cover of darkness. When he didn't elaborate, Harry tried to muster his fabled Gryffindor courage to continue the conversation.

'I need a room to stay until the end of the holidays. Will you let one to me? I'll pay...'

'Up front,' the man cut in demandingly.

'I...'

'It's either up front or no room, lad. Your choice. I need to warn you, though, there aren't many places around here where a runaway kid can hide.'

'Okay, okay, how much?' asked Harry quickly, feeling hot again. It wasn't easy for a runaway kid to do pretty much anything. In the magical world those harbouring underage fugitives could expect tremendous fines and Azkaban sentences if captured.

'A hundred galleons,' said the shop assistant immediately, looking at Harry greedily. The boy's jaw dropped. He wouldn't have paid half that in the Leaky Cauldron, and for a much better standard too. He sighed and coughed up. Freedom had its price after all. The man collected the money, eyeing Harry victoriously, and led him to a humid, cold room on the top floor of the house.

'You may have board too if you help around in the shop,' he added charitably. 'I'm Robin Wilcox, by the way, though everyone around here just calls me Robin.'

'It's nice to meet you, sir,' said Harry pleasantly, extending his hand in greeting. 'I am... ergh... Merlin,' the boy shot out the first name that came to his head. Robin roared with laughter.

'Don't bother, kid,' he said with a dismissive wave of a hand. 'I don't care what your name is. No one here will. You could be Minister Knot himself for all I care.'

Harry winced. 'It's not my fault my parents had a weird taste for names,' he muttered, feeling rather foolish. Robin only patted him patronisingly on the shoulder, warned him that for all the damages he would have to pay extra, and left, shutting the door behind him.

Harry let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding. The room was quite spartan, but the boy was simply too happy to bother. The bed was of the old hospital variety, with iron bars and a thin, springy mattress. There was a measly looking blanket and a small pillow. It was neither better nor worse than the conditions he lived in at the Dursleys', so the boy simply didn't pay much attention to it. The wardrobe, on the other hand, was a very beautiful piece of furniture. It was made of heavy oak and richly decorated with floral motifs. There was also a plain desk and a chair, and a candlestick (one per night, as Harry recalled Robin cautioning him). On the floor there was an antique rug, threadbare and with holes, but one could still notice hints of its long-gone beauty.

In a sudden bout of juvenile happiness, Harry tosses himself onto the bed, wincing slightly when it groaned dangerously under his weight. It wasn't particularly comfortable, but neither was it any worse than his bed at the Dursleys'.

'Ah, finally free...' the boy sighed, contented. Dumbledore would have kittens.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello everyone! Here is the next chapter, dedicated to you all. Thank you for all your reviews and likes. Hopefully you'll still like the story after this chapter;P And any boys reading it, please tell me how I am doing with boy psychology, because I thought it was quite good, considering what I've seen boys do, but I'm not a boy myself and as I tend to write growing-up stories I need to know if it's at least realistic. Cheers!  
**

**Chapter 2 - Two Roads Diverged in a Wood**

_I shall be telling this with a sigh  
_

_Somewhere ages and ages hence:  
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_Two roads diverdged in a wood, and I -  
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_I took the one less travelled by,  
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_And that has made all the difference.  
_

_- Robert Frost, 'The Road Not Taken'  
_

Knockturn Alley wasn't much different to what Harry had expected, but he did get a few surprises. Obviously, it was damp and dark, full of dirty and dangerous hags, and evil wizards whose only purpose in life was to make other people's lives miserable. It wasn't safe to roam Knockturn by night, and Harry avoided it like the plague, but it also wasn't much better by day. The boy had already been bothered once by an elderly dark wizard who threatened to pull out all of Harry's fingernails with his rotten teeth if the boy did not vacate his desirable spot in the queue and give it up to the man. Back then not yet used to the peculiar ways of the Knockturners, Harry, swallowing his pride for fear these were not idle threats, abandoned the spot, trying to convince himself that he wasn't a coward; he simply didn't fancy deep-fried salamander's tail at that time and was more than happy to let a man desperate for a snack get further up in the queue.

On the bright side, he had also discovered a tiny but fancy wizards-only boutique where he had ordered a whole new wardrobe. It was quite awkward to only have wizarding clothes all of a sudden, as wearing robes took some time getting used to, especially for someone who had only ever worn them in his school uniform (which robe he usually disregarded anyway, because it was too hot and in the winter he preferred his cloak), but the boy quite enjoyed finding out about different styles, fabrics and colours, and how they reflected a wizard's status or political allegiance. He was surprised that green in all its shades, the colour he most associated with Slytherin and evil, was very often worn by pregnant witches from the upper crust of the magical society, reflecting their blessed state as well as relaxing their senses and ensuring that the developing foetus had a peaceful and pleasant time in the womb. Armed with his newly acquired knowledge, the boy liked to observe people who visited Knockturn and Diagon Alley and guess who they were. Once, he saw a very beautiful lady in a green robe with a ball-sized bump and almost jumped for joy for having confirmed what he had recently found out. On the other hand, he also saw a couple pregnant witches in other colours, so the whole thing was very confusing. He hoped it would clear up in time, as he gained more and more experience.

When he wasn't walking around observing the people, he usually lay on his bed, drowning in thoughts full of guilt and conflicting views of right and wrong. He spent long hours thinking of Hogwarts, of his friends, of his family, and of his life. It was dull and monotone, making him feel rather like a whingeing ass. There was so much melancholy in his mind, so much regret for the things he could have done but didn't out of fear of rejection. He remembered one particular Monday at Hogwarts at the end of his fourth year when he had acted like a complete idiot. Every normal boy would have jumped at the occasion, especially when it was screaming in his ear to use it. But he just let it go, scared of his own reaction...

_...Hogwarts. Monday. Potions. Three words that made almost every pupil at the venerable institution shiver with dread. Professor Snape, the Potions master, seemed to operate under the mode 'permanently foul', causing even the most talented young potioneer to lose their enthusiasm for the subject. After all, even the ablest might become rather disheartened when faced with constant lack of appreciation for their hard work, regardless of its excellence._

_However, this Monday's Potions lesson was different, at least for one person. Snape, as was his habit, barged into the classroom precisely with the siren announcing the commencement of the afternoon classes. His black cloak billowed behind him menacingly as he mercilessly deducted five points from Neville Longbottom for failing to have all of his equipment ready before the lesson began. The man strode over to the blackboard and tapped it three times with his ebony wand, prompting a piece of chalk to rise and write the instructions for the Blood-Clotting Potion, a complicated yet very useful healing draught used to treat open wounds and internal bleeding. As Snape also explained, the potion was extremely dangerous if administered by an unqualified buffoon, as an overdose might cause blood to clot uncontrollably and become solid, in effect killing rather than healing._

_Having acquainted himself with the ingredients for what he was sure would be another failure for him this year, Harry Potter followed his classmates to the cupboard at the back to collect what was needed. There were fifteen ingredients altogether in the potion, ranging from pleasant ones, like rosewater instead of regular water, to revolting ones, like a toad's tongue. Inwardly gagging with disgust at the mere thought of having to touch such things again, Harry selected what was needed and returned to his seat. He lit the fire underneath his cauldron and poured the rosewater inside, chopping pine needles as he waited for the water to boil. Then, trying not to wince with repulsion, the boy quickly chopped the toad's tongue, put it aside for adding later, and turned to pulverising Vitto beans, a strange African plant that smelled like bad eggs, rendering it even more vomit-inducing than the tongue. Thankfully, the rest of the ingredients were pleasant enough, like delicate, red saffron strings, powdered ginger, and lots of goat's milk (even though the last one spelled badly, making Harry wonder how Aunt Petunia could drink it for breakfast three times a week)._

_As the rosewater in his cauldron began to bubble, the boy dropped the toad's tongue and saffron strings inside, stirred it five times anti-clockwise and allowed to stew for three minutes before adding the pulverised beans and a number of sweet-smelling spices. Then he once again gave it a stir, five times clockwise, ten times anti-clockwise, and two times clockwise. Wiping the sweat of anxiety from his forehead, Harry eyed Snape warily, but the man was sitting behind his desk, grading essays. Judging by the Potions master's face, whoever wrote them did not do a very good job. Sighing with relief of not having Snape hover over him taking points, Harry was about to return to his work when the door burst open and Daphne Greengrass, previously absent, walked in, apologised for being late and approached Snape to explain her tardiness. Curious of what she might have to say in her defence, Harry had troubles concentrating on his potion which he knew required his utmost attention at every stage of brewing._

_As he had soon found out, at the expense of his potion that was now running down the table and onto the floor, Daphne had suffered severe cramps in her thigh, which she had strained while riding unicorns, and needed to go to the Hospital Wing for treatment. She even produced a slip from Madam Pomfrey in support of her claims. Despite satisfying his curiosity, Harry concluded that it had hardly been worth the twenty points he lost and the zero he received for his botched up work. _

_But... there was one aspect of the Potions lesson that day that made him significantly happier, even if dreadfully confused, upon leaving the classroom than he had been when he had entered it two hours prior. Namely, when Daphne was retreating from Snape's desk to take a seat at her customary table where she sat with Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode and Tracy Davis, she smiled cheekily at Harry, winked at him, and purposefully let her sleeve brush against Harry's as she passed by him, making the boy freeze for a second, swallow heavily, blush and develop a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach, quite unlike the familiar sensation he felt in the same area before every Potions lesson. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before, and it hit him so suddenly and without a warning that he was actually pretty confused._

_It wasn't as if he had never fell for a girly smile before. Zoë Blake, Ginny Weasley's classmate from Ravenclaw, had a stunning smile, one Harry often dreamt would be directed at him rather than at James Fenshaw, her boyfriend and a Hufflepuff in Harry's year. He was even proud to say that he knew what real boobs looked like. He'd seen them in one of the wank mags Seamus kept under his mattress. He still remembered the excitement in his dorm at the beginning of his third year when Seamus had for the first time brought the autumn edition of Playwizard to school, though it was a bit disconcerting for him to see another thing beside magic for which witches used their wands. Conjured all sorts of bizarre images each time he saw a female classmate do magic. Seamus had sworn he had seen his sister doing IT when he was six and she was sixteen, and that last summer he got off with his sister's friend, but none of the boys believed him. They were perfectly aware that Seamus's sister was eight and took great delight in teasing him about being a pedo. _

_Never the less, despite what he considered a wealth of experience he had accumulated through the years, Harry felt really strange when girls turned their attention to him as bluntly as Daphne did in Potions. It was unsettling to have her wink at him and smile so invitingly. She was one of the prettiest girls at Hogwarts, in Harry's opinion, though far from the Barbie-like beauty of Lavender Brown, Hannah Abbott, and Parvati Patil, and many other girls for that matter. She was a goddess, with curves and boobs, and stuff. Harry, being lanky and with hardly any ball hairs to speak of, felt rather inadequate. Seamus's assurances that girls were creatures from another planet who didn't perspire, pee, poo or fart was even more unnerving. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a father to talk to about such matters! There were male teachers at Hogwarts, but he simply didn't feel confident enough to approach them with that sort of problem. Obviously, he didn't believe that girls had no need for using the loo, otherwise why would anyone build lavatories for them, but the thought that they were different than boys was always present in his mind, making it difficult for Harry to talk to them. Hermione was an exception, but Hermione was a mate. She wasn't very girlish, and she was a bookworm so she didn't talk about make-up, and clothes, and all other strange things that girls usually discussed. Besides, Harry didn't feel like talking to Hermione about his problems either. It just didn't feel right. That left the lads from the dorm to bestow their knowledge upon him, which wasn't exactly what he wanted, but was the best that was available at the moment. _

_The boy left the dungeons in a daze. He had never felt this way before and the rational part of his brain laughed at him for being pathetic. He felt really silly and embarrassed walking alongside Ron and Hermione towards the Transfiguration classroom, trying to hide his turbulent thoughts from them. He desperately wanted to hurry up, so he would not have to listen to Daphne's voice chattering away with Pansy Parkinson about the benefits of bespoke herbal infusions for hair conditioning concoctions, but he felt drawn to the sound of her voice and his ears seemed greedily to crave to hear more and more of their conversation, even if he cared nothing for hair conditioning. _

_What he had always known, but never really cared about before, was that Daphne's voice, which now held him so enchanted, was very deep and rich, quite amazing for a girl her age. All of her friends tended to squeal. She had a lovely cut-glass accent, a bit like his own, standard accent which he had acquired while growing up in an affluent part of Surrey that was generally inhabited by old boys, their trophy-wives, and their over-invested children. Harry couldn't understand why all of a sudden he felt so intoxicated by Daphne's voice. True, it was exceptionally beautiful, but it wasn't as if he never heard it before. It was as if her voice had suddenly acquired a magical allure. Something in there was much more powerful than simple vocal cords. Her voice held magic in it, and the power of it was what drew Harry in. However ridiculous the explanation sounded, it was the only thing Harry could come up with. After all, a day ago, when he heard her discuss the uses of biting geranium in the cosmetic industry, he felt nothing. The tinge of today wasn't there at all. Putting aside the fact that he would never let the biting geranium anywhere near his face, the matter remained that Daphne's voice had never before held any special interest to him. The change was so abrupt, however, that he would have to be a complete thickhead not to notice. _

_Still, whatever allure Daphne seemed to give off, she was a Slytherin, one of the toffee-nosed, silver-spoon-fed, arrogant, snobbish girls with whom Gryffindor boys tended to have nothing to do. The only exception to the rule was the Gryffindor House Captain, Hugo Mount, whose girlfriend was Louise Berman, a beautiful and rich daughter of a magical baronet from the South. Then again, Hugo Mount had no reason to complain about his own lifestyle or his family's standing. The Gryffindors sometimes teased him about his privileged background, though they were always careful not to go too far as Hugo was wont to give nasty detentions if rubbed the wrong way._

_Harry couldn't concentrate in Transfiguration, staring absent-mindedly at the back of Daphne's head. He thought she had really nice hair – he liked the silky, black ringlets. They were very pretty and uncommon, which was something he truly appreciated about Daphne. She wasn't common, far from it actually. Her looks made her stand out from the crowd, they made her exceptional, one of a kind. And Harry liked it that way, even though the rational part of his brain kept nagging him and presenting before him a multitude of Daphne's faults: she was a rich, snooty pureblood, she was one of the socially popular girls (unlike him, a son of a mudblood and a conventions-breaking pureblood, rather antisocial and withdrawn from the broader school life); Daphne was also classy, articulate, extremely self-confident, and a keen equestrian (again, unlike him, socially awkward, shunning publicity, wearing old and tatty clothes the Dursleys had been 'kind' enough to gift him with, and a Quidditch player – a game that required a lot of skill but little physical prowess); not to mention the fact that Daphne was gradually maturing into a young woman, whereas he, to his utter dismay and to the amusement of his mates, stubbornly remained his old, boyish self. He might have finally started knackjumping in his fourth year, but his perfectly smooth face was nothing he might be proud of – hell, even Neville had some fluff on his cheeks; and Seamus had a penchant to flaunt his thick stubble by leaving it all over the sink every morning, as if to prove that he was the stubbliest fourth-year at Hogwarts._

_And so Harry sat through Transfiguration, paying very little attention to the kitten he was supposed to change into a handbag, thinking about Daphne and trying to understand his state of utter confusion. Why did she smile at him? Why did she wink? Why was a SLYTHERIN even interested in him? And worse, what was it in her voice that charmed him so?_

_Frustrated with the load of perfectly uncomfortable questions, Harry sprinted out of the classroom the moment the siren heralded the end of the lesson, deposited his bag in the Gryffondor common room, and used the opportunity to join in the Broomstick Rugby Club's practice. Broomstick Rugby was a very demanding, close-contact, almost brutal sport and by the time the practice session was over, Harry was sweaty, red-faced, out-of-breath, and hurting all over, but also happy for having scored three times during the game, contributing to the team's victory._

_As he was walking back to the dorm to change before dinner, he passed Daphne and Pansy in the Entrance Hall. Daphne shot him a toothy smile and winked at him again. Too tired to actually register what he was doing, Harry waved at her and continued walking, never noticing that the jaw of Terry Boot, who was accompanying him back from the playing fields, hit the floor._

_'You know Greengrass?' he asked in awe._

_'Well, sort of,' replied Harry, trying to appear confident, but he could feel a blush creeping up his cheeks. Silently, he thanked Merlin they had already been flushed from the game. 'We share quite a lot of classes.'_

_'That looked like more than just sharing classes to me,' said Boot, grinning like a sex-hungry maniac. 'She's gorgeous, mate,' he added, thumping Harry on the back. _

_'Yeah, whatever tickles your fancy, you idiot,' answered Harry, punching Terry back and blushing furiously. Boot laughed seeing Harry's expression._

_'You like her,' he said accusingly. _

_'No, I don't!' the boy denied indignantly. 'It's just her doing... well... this stuff.'_

_'Sure,' Terry teased. 'Well, she seems to like you too...'_

_'What the hell are you talking about?' snapped Harry angrily. 'I don't fancy her, and she doesn't fancy me. Now, shut up and let's hurry. I need a shower before dinner.'_

_'Okay, okay...'_

_True to his word, Terry didn't mention Daphne again, though that didn't stop him from making smooching noises all the way before they parted, grating on Harry's nerves and attracting comments putting his maturity in doubt. _

_'I'll have your balls for earrings if anyone hears this rubbish!' threatened Harry, as Terry made off towards the Ravenclaw common room, cackling like a hyena._

Even though Harry avoided Daphne like the plague after that, the girl did not let him off the hook. The power of her voice grew so strong that Harry contemplated telling someone. It was unnatural, a rather weird fetish. He worried the girl might have put a spell on him. In the end, though, he carried on as usual, intrigued but in denial. Daphne wasn't for him. Or was she?

* * *

'Robin?' asked Harry, walking into the shop in the evening after trading hours.

The owner, who had been removing bird droppings from the cages, grunted with acknowledgement.

'What snakes have you got here?' the boy elaborated, by now used to his unsociable landlord, inspecting the contents of the glass tanks where the reptiles were held.

'Mostly pythons,' replied Robin, never looking up from what he was doing.

Harry frowned. The snake he was looking at, small and thin, and black as tar, certainly wasn't a python, at least not one he was familiar with. It looked as if his skin was fluid.

'What about this one?' he asked, pointing to the unusual snake.

This time, Robin grudgingly looked up from the cage he was scrubbing, clearly annoyed at being disturbed again.

'It's a black African Pearl Snake,' explained Robin. 'Nasty little bugger, really high maintenance. They come in black, white, and sort of pearlish pink. If someone doesn't buy him soon, I'll have to put him down. I can't afford to feed him.'

Harry looked down at the reptile with pity. It was a nice specimen, very beautiful. At the moment, the snake seemed to be asleep, as it didn't emit any hissing noises, allowing the boy to admire its jet-black coils, its silky skin, and muscled body.

'What does it eat?' The boy kept staring at the snake with a great deal of curiosity, asking questions which undoubtedly annoyed Robin who didn't like being bugged.

'Pearls,' replied Robin, giving up cleaning cages for the time being. 'Bloody expensive. It needs a couple pearls a month, ideally a couple a week. More, the blasted thing usually requires pearls in the colour of its skin. It'd rather have a white one to be honest. Can't say I'm happy about the whole thing. It really is a fine creature, but it's hard to keep them alive in captivity. They die quickly of malnourishment, especially when people try feeding them what they would normally feed all other snakes. They also get depressed easily, 'cause they're very sensitive and need a very specific environment.' That said, Robin sighed and resumed scrubbing the cages.

Harry considered for a moment. The snake was utterly beautiful. It would be a shame for such a fine animal to be put down. On the other hand, how would he explain a new pet to his friends? And not just _a_ pet, too. A poisonous snake! He was a Gryffindor, an epitome of all goodness, a beacon of hope for the people of magical Britain who expected him to one day rid their little worlds of all evil. How could he, the Saviour, do something so uncanny as to buy a snake, a symbol of everything he stood against? What would Hermione say if she knew he was making use of his less savoury skills? What would Dumbledore say to that? What would Ron? What would the other Weasleys? Harry was a Parselmouth, but it didn't mean he had to pander to his lower instincts. The ability to speak to snakes was one of the vilest taboos the wizarding world had to hide. Even in cultures where snakes were revered, the ability to use Parseltongue was not something one boasted about. Only the most wicked wizards made use of it. And for that reason precisely Harry wanted the snake. Owning a magical reptile would be a sign for everyone saying: 'Look! Harry Potter is not who you think he is!' Hopefully, the narrow-minded wizards would also understand that it was not our abilities that made us who we are but our use of them.

'How much do you want for him?' the boy asked after a moment of deliberation. Robin made huge eyes in surprise, then let out a bark of laughter.

'Are you sure you want to throw away that much money? Even if I gave you the bugger free of charge, you'd still have to feed him. It really does cost a fortune.'

But Harry had already decided. 'I want him,' he said firmly. 'I can take care of him.'

Robin smirked and shrugged. 'I don't care, as long as it's off my shoulders. I want fifty Galleons to reimburse me for feeding him for the last three weeks and the snake is yours.'

For a moment, Harry wanted to haggle over the price. He noticed that it was a common practice in Knockturn and cursed himself for not having bargained over the price of his accommodation. But there was no crying over spilt milk now. Still, fifty Galleons was a lot of money and he had already spent more on the room than he had planned initially. He wasn't certain how much there was in his vault, but surely a trust fund couldn't contain all that much. He needed it to finish his education, especially since he did not plan on going to the Dursleys for the holidays in the years to come and would therefore have to budget for living expenses too. Of course, he was a Parselmouth, so it would be much easier for him to care for a snake, but buying a couple of, ideally, black pearls a week didn't sound like a cheap thing to do.

'Thirty,' said Harry, a bit unsure as he had never haggled before.

Robin only smirked. He had seen Harry's determination to save the snake's life. He was not going to let such a deal go easily. 'Fifty, or I kill the snake right now,' he said confidently.

Harry's eyes narrowed. 'Then you won't have your thirty Galleons at all and you will have spent the fifty on feeding the snake in vain,' he responded cheekily. Listening to people buying things in Knockturn had really paid off.

A huge grin of self-satisfaction washed over his face when he saw Robin relenting. The man might have noticed Harry's obsession with saving lives, but the boy had noticed the shop owner's greed. Harry was pretty sure Robin wouldn't kill the snake when then was a prospect of making a profit out of it.

'Have it your way, boy,' said Robin gruffily. 'Just don't come back to me when you come to regret it.'

'Don't worry, I won't.' That said, Harry picked up the tank and left the shop after paying for his new pet. The moment it felt the movement, the snake woke up and started hissing aggressively. Harry assumed the reptile was simply expressing his rage at being awoken, since he couldn't make out any particular words, apart from occasional death threats directed at his person. He didn't worry about it, though. He revelled in the beautiful sound he had not heard for a while. There was something oddly exhilarating in a snake's hiss. Something that spoke to even the deepest nerve in the body, tickling it and sending shivers down the spine. Harry put the tank on the bedside table and looked down at the black snake tenderly. He lowered his hand to stroke the animal, but had to retract it quickly when the snake attacked, with its jaws parted, ready to immerse its poisonous fangs in Harry's hand. Luckily for the boy, he had been fast enough to get his hand out of the way. The snake banged its head on the glass wall of the tank, making a lot of noise. Harry smirked when he heard the Parseltongue equivalent of a quite common English profanity.

'That wasn't very clever,' he hissed, shaking with laughter.

The snake looked at him indignantly, or at least that was the impression Harry got. 'A daft Speaker...' hissed the snake. 'Who would have thought...'

Now it was Harry's turn to be indignant. 'I'm not daft, thank you very much. And I would expect you'd show at least some more gratitude for being saved from death.'

'Wouldn't be the first time I saw Death face to face and escaped unscathed,' said the snake. 'What is your name, boy?'

Harry frowned. No, not because he forgot his name, but because he absolutely didn't like the snake's mode of address. It felt like talking to Snape. A measly animal thought him a half-wit, despite the fact that he had just saved the said creature from being clubbed to death.

'I'm Harry. How about you?'

The snake gave an impression of a smirk, though Harry couldn't be certain, as he had never spent much time in the company of snakes and was therefore ill-accustomed to reading their mimics.

'So it's not Merlin after all?' the reptile laughed hissingly. Harry blushed with embarrassment but tried to weather with fortitude and said nothing. 'My name is Ansh, I am the Sun-worshipper. Or rather I used to be when I lived with my tribe in the Drakensberg Mountains. Now I only am the Sun-worshipper when one of you, wizards, takes me to the ceremony. I used to serve in the Temple of the Sun.'

'The cult of the Sun?' asked Harry curiously. 'Never heard of it.'

'You wizards really are stupid,' said Ansh. 'Take a seat, boy. It's a rather complicated story.'


	3. Chapter 3

Hello! It's been some time, I do apologise for that. I was about to give up on this story but yesterday I finally had a miraculous breakthrough during my Latin lecture (it was so boring I had to occupy my mind otherwise).

Thank you to everyone for your warm reviews, I hope you enjoy this chapter too. It's much different to the previous two but that was the point;)

Not exactly a chapter for children, a fair warning. But nothing too graphic;)

Cheers!

* * *

Chapter 3 – Ansh tells his tale

_But if a dullard should dote, deem it no wonder,  
And through the wiles of a woman be wooed into sorrow,  
For so was Adam by one, when the world began,  
And Solomon by many more, and Samson the mighty—  
Delilah was his doom, and David thereafter  
Was beguiled by Bathsheba, and bore much distress;_

For these were proud princes, most prosperous of old,  
Past all lovers lucky, that languished under heaven,  
bemused.  
**And one and all fell prey  
To women they had used;  
If I be led astray,  
Methinks I may be excused.**- Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

The part of the Drakensberg Mountains where Ansh was born was a small table-top where the Uruga tribe had its settlement of tiny hut. It was secluded and rarely did anyone but the tribesmen pass by it. The Uruga were famous for their cult of the Black Pearl Snake, a beast both deadly and extremely beautiful which, according to a legend, had led the first of the Uruga, Matshwayo, to the table-top where the tribe had flourished and prospered ever since. Since then, the Uruga had worshipped the rare reptile and passed their time trying to breed and develop the species. It wasn't until late nineteen-ten that the first outsider found his way to the village.

Sir Rupert Walter, a famous explorer and adventurer, stumbled across the settlement while flying over the Drakensberg in his aeroplane. Noticing the signs of human existence in the area which had previously been thought uninhabited, he daringly landed his vehicle on the flat rock surface of the mountain, drawing the attention of the entire tribe who had never seen either a white man or an aeroplane before. He was immediately seized by the mob of shouting Uruga tribesmen and carried away to the hut of the Elder, the witch who ruled the village. As Sir Rupert was wont to proclaim later, the witch was quite a sight. She was completely naked, her body painted red with the mixture of fat and ochre, and she wore strings of black pearls around her neck, wrists and ankles. Her black, curly hair that reached to the bottom of her shoulder blades was sleek and shiny, and adorned with black pearls embedded into thick threads of silver running down from the roots to the tips of her hair.

Sir Rupert stared in bewilderment at the lady before him. He noticed with a pang of fear black coils of a huge snake at her feet. It seemed to be nibbling at her ankles with its beastly snout, but she didn't seem to mind at all. Her long, muscled, dark legs were stretched gracefully across the leopard skin she was lying upon and she was slowly taking small sips from a clay cup, looking with great intensity in her black eyes at the man brought before her.

Sir Rupert was forced onto his knees by the two warriors holding him. He reckoned they were warriors because of their sheer strength and the assegais they had had in their hands before roughly seizing him and bringing him before the witch.

'A white man... what a surprise,' the Elder said in a low murmur. Her English was throaty, guttural, but Sir Rupert still felt rather impressed that she spoke any civilised language at all. However, her next words shook the explorer to the bone. He didn't understand what she said but there was absolutely no doubt that the snake at her feet did. Her soft hisses made the beast raise its head and slither closer to Sir Rupert to sniff at his feet, then his ankles, knees, groin, chest, an up, until its ugly triangular head was levelled with the man's horrified face. It hissed warningly, baring its fangs in a threat of a slow and painful death if they were to be sunk in the soft, pink flesh that was now pumping with blood and adrenaline, enticing the snake even further.

The woman hissed, rather unsnakelike, her hiss more like a growl, and put her hand on the snake's massive body in a calming gesture. She stroked the scaly skin gently, making Sir Rupert wonder at how did she manage to control a deadly reptile the size of a palm tree. At her touch, the beast recoiled at her feet, calm again but its beady eyes still observed Sir Rupert's every move with undying interest, unnerving the man, especially since he didn't know what ground he stood on. Was he a guest or a prisoner liable to be fed to the giant snake any moment were he to blunder?

'What is it that you look for on the Mountain of the Pearl Snake?' the witch asked finally, her accent hard, making her sound ruthless and dangerous.

'I...' Sir Rupert struggled for words after what he thought was a near-death experience of less than five minutes before. 'Nothing,' he said uncertainly. 'I landed here. I am an explorer. I didn't mean to intrude.'

The witch accepted Sir Rupert's explanation and invited him to dine with her in her hut. As was customary for the Uruga, the man was taken away to be prepared to attend a meal in the presence of the Elder. Being requested to come to dinner to the witch's hut was a great honour, one rarely bestowed on anyone, let alone an outsider, and it was only appropriate for Sir Rupert to follow the same rituals as others allowed into the presence of the witch when she enjoyed her bite.

Sir Rupert was handed over to three women whose skin was so dark it looked black. They were dressed in nothing but strings of red beads of coral around their necks, wrists and ankles, and with deeply shaken wonder Sir Rupert observed their bosoms rubbing against him as they slowly undressed him, chanting long words in an odd, guttural language.

Sir Rupert tried modestly to cover his nakedness with his hands but the three girls led him to a small pool of water and slowly stepped inside, tugging him to follow. The surface of the water was unnaturally still and pitch-black, which Sir Rupert thought odd, but he had no mind to think on it because the women began massaging his entire body, their hands brushing at his groin far too often for comfort.

'Don't...' he gasped when one of the small black hands ventured too boldly into his nether regions. He was horrified. He was a young Christian gentleman of nineteen years of age, he had never been touched in such a way by a woman before, and he felt conflicted. Nanny used to say that drawing pleasure from the body and not from the soul was a sign of the wicked man. He wasn't wicked, or at least so he hoped. But the hands of the Uruga women felt so good... so good... He had absolutely so inclination to shy away from their steadily more and more persistent touch.

But before he managed to feel fully satisfied, to his utter disappointment, the girl's interest switched to a small clay cup filled with some green gooey ointment. It smelled strongly of herbs and stung Sir Rupert's delicate skin as the women rubbed it onto his broad shoulders and chest. They put the substance on with sweeping, light but vigorous movements of their agile palms, caressing Sir Rupert's well-toned body, making his head loll around in pleasure. Again, however, they stopped much too early for the man's liking and led him out of the water, into the blistering heat of the sunny African summer day.

Unsure whether the women attending him would understand a word of English, Sir Rupert remained quiet throughout the proceedings and let himself be taken to a tiny hut that smelled of dried cattle dung and herbs. There, his body was covered with oil to make it sleek and shiny, he was given a string of black pearls to tie around his waist, as the only garment he'd be wearing that evening, and was made to drink an eye-watering infusion of some plant that would cleanse him inside. He could feel it bubble all the way down to his intestines and then, to his embarrassment, released a mighty burp, making the three girls giggle. They said something to each other in the guttural language Sir Rupert didn't understand, looked him up and down appreciatively, their gazes lingering for a bit longer mid-way to his feet, and then giggled again, this time with a bit of a tease.

'I see you're quite a man for a boy your age,' said the witch when he had been brought back to her hut. When Sir Rupert failed to respond, she shot him a predatory smile and extended her arm in an inviting gesture. Warily, he slipped down onto the leopard skin next to her and stared at the cup she held in her hand. There was no food in the hut other than whatever drink she was having and he felt a little unnerved by her and his own nakedness and the lusty smiles she kept gracing him with.

'Are you comfortable?' she asked in a deep, throaty murmur, looking at him with her huge, black eyes.

Sir Rupert nodded uncertainly, though truth was he felt anything but. He regretted dearly his landing on the mountain and wished he could go back to his uncle's house in Durban which he had been visiting with his mother as part of their tour of the Empire.

'No, you're not,' she said teasingly, pulling at his arm to encourage him to move closer. He did, and she wrapped her legs and arms around him, spooning her body against his back. 'You must relax,' she whispered soothingly into his ear.

Trying not to think of her firm, round breasts pressing against his shoulder blades or her curly bush against his lower back, Sir Rupert closed his eyes, imagining himself in his family house in London. It was hard to concentrate, however, with her long fingers kneading his back and neck in what he thought had to be the most arousing massage he had ever experienced.

'Can you feel the heat?' the witch asked in a husky voice, her fingers now running down his chest, teasingly straying too low for comfort and too high for pleasure. 'The Sun gives us heat. It shines over us by day, gives light so that we may know our direction. It brought you here. It wanted you here. The Sun is deadly, and yet without it nothing would survive. It's powerful, very powerful. Who are we to resist the heat?' she whispered, gently swaying against Sir Rupert's body.

It was wrong on so many levels. He was a Christian gentleman, a white Englishman, a baronet, he had responsibilities in the society from which he came, his whole duty was to the Empire. He should not indulge in carnal pleasures, least of all with a black tribal witch. Was he so duped by the herbs that he failed to acknowledge his moral compass anymore? He was to be engaged to be married upon his return to London. Lady Mary Cornwallis-West was such a pretty girl, so gentle and shy. She had all the credentials of the future Lady Rupert Walter. But she did not have the same passion, she was not luscious, she was not daring and dangerous. There was no thrill to bedding her. She was just there, as a proper future wife should be. A lady in the ballroom, but she forgot the part of a whore in the bedroom. She was boring.

Sir Rupert was an adventurer, he revelled in the unknown, the forbidden. He wanted the witch as he had never wanted anything in his life. Her soft, hot body was tightly pressed against him, so eager, so inviting. She was his for the taking.

'Do it,' she whispered hoarsely, nibbling at his earlobe, trailing a hot, wet line along the pumping artery in his neck with her pink tongue. Sir Rupert tilted his head to the side, enjoying her ministrations. She kissed his jawline, his neck, his collar bone. She greedily licked his artery again and then a piercing pain, worse than being clawed by a lion, shot through his neck. Sir Rupert cried out in shock. The witch had sunk her teeth in his flesh and was drinking his blood, juicing him until she felt satisfied. When finally she stopped, Sir Rupert felt dizzy and weak. He looked up at the woman with astonishment written all over his face, only to see her smiling broadly with crimson liquid running down her chin. She licked her lips, making Sir Rupert feel a pang of overwhelming desire mixed with fear at the sight of her vampiric fangs.

'Delicious,' she hissed, continuing her venture down his torso. Soon, he could feel her lips and tongue on his nipples and then trailing a line between his abdominal muscles towards a trail of dark hair that ran from his navel downwards.

'Why did you bite me?' he asked later, as they lay cuddled together in a tangle of legs and arms on the leopard skin.

The witch looked up at him lazily, her black eyes gleaming in the darkness. 'You were invited to dine with me, were you not?' she replied simply, resting her cheek against his chest.

'I was not aware I was supposed to be the supper,' he replied seriously.

'No, you were not.'

They lay together in silence until the sun started rising in the east. The witch stirred and moved her legs to get them out of reach of the golden beams of sunlight peeking through the cracks in the thatched roof. She shouted something in the guttural language and soon a blanket of animal hide had been pulled over the hut, plunging them into darkness.

'In three days time, you're going to become one of us,' the witch said quietly. 'The Sun will become deadly, at long exposure it will burn you to a crisp. The Sun shall no longer give you heat or pleasure, only pain. Only the Moon, his sister, the more mysterious and ambitious of the two, will lighten your long nights of solitude, lead you and cool your fevered body after the ordeal of the day. But the Moon likes to be worshipped. She enjoys watching as you taint yourself. She loves seeing innocence ripped away, she adores blood. The Sun is self-righteous, it craves to life, to a beating heart, and to quick breathing. But you are a creature of the night now, the Sun is against you. Respect it, because it's powerful and beautiful, but be wary of it. Only the Moon will love you, she's your ally now. She'll never let you get lost in the Darkness.'

'Ansh will come with you,' the witch said in the evening after the Sun set, passing a small black snake to Sir Rupert who was about to board his aeroplane. 'He's a reptile, a Sun-worshipper. He'll provide balance to your developing Darkness. You must let him bask daily and he will serve you like he did the Sun when he lived in the Temple. Take good care of him.'

Sir Rupert nodded agreeably and jumped into the cockpit.

'Farewell, witch,' he called above the roar of the engine.

'Farewell, white man, may the Moon lead you home safely.'

* * *

'… and that's basically what the cult of the Sun is all about,' hissed Ansh, well-satisfied with his story. He might have gone slightly overboard with detail and, really, there hardly was any reason beside entertainment for telling Harry the whole story usually told to young vampires as a fairy tale but Ansh hugely enjoyed talking at length, including every minute detail, and simply condensing in two sentences why the Sun was revered didn't quite cut it for him. Especially since he had no opportunity to talk to a human being since he had left the Uruga village eighty years ago. He might have become a bit of a legend since then but talking to humans was what he was bred to do in the first place.

'Was she a vampire?' asked Harry in awe. His mind was still deep in the dark Africa, in the village of the Uruga tribe, imagining the delicious witch who bit Sir Rupert. It awoke some of his own darker fantasies which he would never dare to admit to.

'Is that all your nut-shaped brain managed to grasp from the story?' hissed Ansh with despair. 'What about the Sun cult you were so interested in?'

Harry frowned indignantly. 'Well, forgive me for listening to other things you've said too!'

Ansh sighed patronisingly. 'Yes, she was a vampire. Still is, probably, unless someone managed to stake her. She was quite a lass. Not that it's all that important, though. What you should know is that the rituals, very bloody rituals, full of debauchery, that are meant to worship the Sun are highly controversial. They are extremely frowned upon, though not as much as the worship of the Moon which has been outlawed altogether. You silly European wizards seem to believe that such magic can't function without its counterpart. The truth is, every magic needs a counterpart. Everything needs to be balanced. Otherwise it consumes everything around it.'

Harry looked at the snake quizzically. Apart from its superior attitude and Snape-like sarcasm, the reptile was surprisingly informative and interesting, and the boy wanted to know more.

'But why is it illegal?' he asked, the beautiful and exciting image of the witch and Sir Rupert together still ripe in his mind's eye.

'It's a very powerful magic,' replied Ansh seriously. 'Such power is not a toy, it's a great responsibility. Back in the day, people knew their duty and used it as it's meant to be used. Nowadays, too many abuse the power of magic, use it for their own selfish gains and fall prey to its corrupting influence. The Sun and Moon cult is not something just anyone can do. Only the most powerful wizards and witches survive the sheer power that passes through their bodies during any one of the rituals performed on the day of new and full moon, and on certain days of the solar cycle. It's not a trifling matter and it's definitely not something that should be allowed to be performed freely by just anybody. That's why we had Temples in the Darkensberg, so only the selected few are taught the magic and entrusted with using it properly. Some people are simply too dangerous or too weak to be taught, because they could become a threat to the balance of power in the world.'

Harry nodded, accepting the reasoning. It was sound. Apparently, what he saw as insignificant Pagan rituals carried a lot more substance. There was a huge disparity between what he was taught to think of such magic and what the reality held. It's power scared but also excited him. He just really wanted to try it, see it. It was just too bad that it was illegal and anyone practising it was probably hidden as far away from the view of the authorities as it was humanly possible.

Harry believed in freedom, having been denied it for the last fifteen years. People were intelligent beings with a moral compass. But even he knew that it wasn't exactly the case and some ambitious, powerful people were better kept on a tight leash. On the other hand, decent people didn't need oppressive laws to keep them in check and bad people wouldn't care about bans anyway. What was the point of banning things then?

'Ansh, I'm going for a walk,' said Harry, rising form his seat on the bed. 'I'll be back later. Do what you like in the meantime but be a dear and don't bite anyone, okay?'

The reptile hissed indignantly at being ordered around by a fifteen-year-old and for a moment Harry thought the snake might just go and bite someone if only to prove a point, but Ansh chose to ignore him instead and settled for a nap.


End file.
